All The Stories I Wrote About You

First stop was Copper Mountain. “Where is everybody?!” You yelled, and then we burst out laughing. It was obviously the off season for skiing, but we were in town for a night or two and the ski resort was a perfect place to stay. A fitting place for tourists in Colorado. It beats the Best Western, and we still had money to burn. Hmm hmm, what shall we do tonight? That’s what I would think each night. I never thought in all my years of living and schooling that I always had the time to take these trips of ours. All this time! So much time on our hands! So! Much! Time!

Colorado was a pretty quiet place for our stay, I don’t know if that’s unusual, I don’t know what kind of place Colorado is. But it was quiet for us. We spent that day just looking around the resort and enjoying all the amenities and spoiling ourselves, and we even paid to go up the mountain where the skiers usually go. We ended up in some closed gift shop/cafeteria and outside dining room, and we sat there with surprisingly no view in sight. I didn’t know if we were bored or what. You said you’d throw me off the side of the mountain and that I’d make a good snowboard. And then we went back down and found a nice place to eat in town, not like a Chili’s or Denny’s or anything, but something we could only find in Colorado. Then we felt we did enough to enjoy the place as much as we could before leaving it, and we called it a night.

Next stop was Nebraska, but we were just driving through. There were still so many things for us to enjoy in Nebraska as soon as we arrived, late in the afternoon (such as the distant rest stops and snack stops, and I can’t forget how beautiful the American countryside could be, having driven through it straight through an entire day.) Such a flat place, after being surrounded by mountains. We didn’t bother looking for a hotel and we just decided to drive all night long taking turns, thinking it would not only be convenient and cheap, but that it would also be tons of fun. Both of us barely slept, still, because we were paranoid the other driving would doze off at the wheel. So we kept each other company when the moon was the only light on the road, and we never ran out of music. We must’ve heard Elvis singing “I’ll Never Let You Go Little Darlin’” about twenty two times, but it charmed us each time. And we said sweet things to one another, not worrying whether or not the sun was ever going to come up again.

After Nebraska came Missouri, which sounds so much like “misery,” and incidentally we had gotten into quite a lot of bickering over directions on that first day crossing the state line. The argument came to a silence when you told me I might as well sit in the back and take a nap while you got us out of the somewhat obscure back road, which you had gotten us into the first place. But then I did what you said, half hoping I would wake up and we’d be where we planned, and the other half of me wishing that you’d beg for forgiveness and give up your dumb pride and we’d stop at some no name eatery and study our map, this map which we picked up a long time ago at some old souvenir shop (in which you wrote “I WILL FOLLOW YOU ANYWHERE!” on the centerfold, without me knowing, and without me finding out until months later when we actually used it. How I loved my map, then!)

Anyways, the latter didn’t happen, and I woke up to you grinning like a moron, but somehow it just made me smile unwillingly, and we got out of the car and I looked at you with shifty eyes and began walking ahead of you. But then you grabbed me before I could run off, and we both found ourselves laughing hysterically, feeling stupid together. We were in the parking lot of the Missouri History Museum.

St. Louis, Missouri is where the famous and brave Charles Lindbergh prepared for the first ever, non-stop, trans-Atlantic flight. He took on the flight all alone, by his choice, sitting there in his own little pocket of the world for more than thirty hours, the world to himself, in his hands. We saw the suit he wore on that trip, with our own eyes, and a couple of his other things. We saw a model of his plane, The Spirit of St. Louis, and you took a picture of me with it, my face gleaming, my finger pointing, and you were glad to see me happy, after all of the mean things you said to me earlier that day. I crossed it off my list, and now my list was one item less than yours.

Around four in the afternoon we enjoyed lunch at some Wendy’s off the interstate, very fine Missourian cuisine (actually we missed Wendy’s back home very much that day, it was so funny to us that we had shared such a feeling, and how we turned to each other when we saw the sign on the road.) We decided then that we could probably live off of deluxe cheeseburgers and frosties for the rest of our lives. But “the rest of our lives!” sounded like too long of a time, so instead we said we could probably live off of just Wendy’s for the rest of the trip.

It was only six in the evening and we had found our hotel sooner than we thought we would, just some Best Western that we had booked for this particular date, not wanting to spend all our money on another fancy resort, stuck in “Misery.” We didn’t realize we’d run out of things to do on this day. But we had more fun than we thought. This included - the best nap ever (yes, at six in the evening, which was a familiar undertaking of ours that we had been missing, unnoticeably, ever since we got real jobs and ever since we got used to waking up early every morning. Oh, vacation, what you do to us!), then wandering the nearby streets for some place good to eat (we found this to be an In-and-Out), then we took our burgers to go and unpacked them while sprawled out on the bed on our stomachs, like kids. And we spent what would normally be gas money on pay-per-view, instead. We picked Apollo 13 for some reason, I guess to sort of commemorate our stay with Mr. Lindbergh here in Misery, for though he was no astronaut, he might as well have been one in his time, the loneliest of all astronauts, suspended in the sky. He might as well have been on the moon alone. But he was happy to be there.

Picking up my list off the table, next to “Spirit of St. Louis!” I added in “burger day!” so that I would remember this uneventful, marvelous, fast food-y evening. After the movie we just sat there flipping through channels and making fun of people on the TV and making fun of each other whenever we could. It felt more like home than the old dusty hotel room it really was. Then to add to the childlikeness of our day, we set out for a 24 hour CVS at one in the morning to buy candy, but when we made it back to the hotel we were too sleepy and tired to eat it, so we just turned out the lights and turned off the TV and lied next to each other instead.

That next morning, we had planned to take off quite early to get to our next destination in good time, but instead I got up and brushed my teeth and then lazily crawled back into bed. And then you did the same but you shut the curtains on your way back so that the sun wouldn't come through, and we stayed there until checkout time.

Six hours were filled with driving and stopping and driving and stopping, all across the ends of Missouri and into the hills and lakes of Tennessee, holding my hand on your lap, and when I wasn’t sleeping I was singing the songs on the mix tape. This part of the trip was filled with a lot of Nashville Skyline, to commemorate our drive through Tennessee, of course. I would sing to you “but I must’ve been mad, I never knew what I had, until I threw it all away!” so lovingly and so sadly to you, trying to be funny with my melodrama. You laughed but then you didn’t look at me. And maybe we were both thinking of the time we were separated, a time when we were too caught up in ourselves to be able to love each other, a moment in time when we did actually stop loving one other.

I thought of how far we had come, and I thought about how painful everything used to be. I thought of how young I was then, and how, at that time in my life, I really didn’t know what it meant to be young at all. I guessed that nobody knew how young and clueless they were until they’d lived years into the future to be able to look back on themselves with wide eyes and soft hearts. And for a moment I thought I had ruined the mood and upset you, for you didn’t look at me or say a word for quite a while, as the song kept playing and as I shut myself up. But then you skipped to the end of the album and sung to me instead: “Throw my troubles out the door, I don’t need them anymore, for tonight, I’ll be staying here with yooooou!”

On one of our stops to fill up, you bought me a plain blue shirt with the state of Tennessee printed on it really big, with all of the highways and state roads outlined in white. I loved it very much even though it smelled like the gas station. We made the rest of the drive in the same manner, hardly speaking, but not having to speak, not really wanting to speak. My window was like a television screen and I couldn’t count the number of green pastures that passed before my eyes. I took your list and crossed it off for you, the line that said “green pastures.” Amazingly you had it on there, such a simple thing to ask to see. And every hour or so I would turn to check on you and you’d smile back silently, or I would turn to you and tell you that I needed to stretch my legs or use the restroom.

The day continued into night, and since we left late that afternoon instead of early morning, we arrived at our friends’ house around one in the morning. It was the home of some of our most dearest friends that married, ones we made back in school days and who shared our same hometown, and who might as well have been our family. We had called ahead saying we were going to be late, and they told us where their front door key was hidden in the front lawn landscape - Three stones down, and then taped to a piece of mulch, we found an old plastic camera film case, and sure enough the key was tucked inside of it. We got in quietly, tired of the drive, had dinner waiting for us in the dining room with a note of hospitality, which ended with “see you tomorrow!”

After our late dinner in the silence of someone else’s home, we found our way to our usual guest room, and said goodnight and I love you, and that was our fourth day.

The next day would be filled with lots of people and old friends and barbequing, and swimming in the lake. We all made the trip to this final place for this one day of getting together, like we had been promising to do for a long time. It had been years since we all had come together last, and though it was so nice to see old friends grown into their own, more beautiful and wise and different and older than I could’ve ever imagined them to be after only a few years, I already missed, dearly, the part of our trip when it was just you and me. And though I loved my best friends, and being there with them, lying out next to them with the sun and sky reflecting on the lake, and oh how I loved talking to them about what wonderful things life has given us that we haven’t been able to share with one another, all I could think of was that I didn’t want to head home tomorrow, and that I didn’t want to be on the lake much longer. It was such a strange feeling. You were there talking to some of the guys and throwing a frisbee, and when you looked at me, just to check in, raising your eyebrows as if you were saying to me, “hello! my love! I am over here and you are over there.” Right then I just wanted to run to you and cry. I thought I must’ve been mad! But that is exactly how I felt at that moment.

Instead of running, I walked over to you and we walked to the picnic tables away from the rest of them. And as if you read my mind, you told me this: “You know, I was thinking that since we were all the way out here already, that if we left a little bit early tomorrow morning and headed further east instead of heading back home, we could spend tomorrow out on the lazy river my family used to take me to in South Carolina. I want you to see it, and all of this time spent traveling and we haven’t once slept outside, which we haven't done in years! But I know you’ll be in trouble if we don’t make it back in time on Monday. So…” you trailed off. We studied each other for a minute, thinking of what to decide for ourselves. We had only given ourselves an allowance of one extra day of vacation, in case we ran into some problem on the road, or in case we were too exhausted as soon as we would arrive at home, to be able to work the next morning.

And then you asked me what I was thinking, and I told you that I think I might follow you wherever you go, and like an idiot you forgot you had written that to me once before, a long, long time ago. And though my sentimentality was for nothing, you thought I had come up with those endearing words myself and you kissed me for it.

The evening went on and we were again together in the company of our close ones, separated, in the company of our close ones. But I remembered I was not only staying with you that night, and one more night after that, but that I might get to spend every single night after that with you. And so I still felt like running to you whenever you were far away from me, but there was no need for crying anymore that night.

In the morning we noticed that in the night before we reached our dear friends’ house, we hadn’t stopped to fill up because of the late hour. So right there at the very last exit before the east and west junction, we split off the highway. We stepped outside the car in the early light, our first early morning since the morning we didn’t sleep at all and drove the whole night through, and for a moment I was afraid that you would change your mind and that you’d be practical, and that we’d just start heading back, and that I’d start counting the days until the trip would end. I don’t know why I thought such sad thoughts, I must’ve mistook your sleepiness, and the stillness and seriousness of morning as some sort of unknown sorrow, like you were changing your mind about me. And I remembered our hotel nights, and though I loved our home, back at home, I would miss being in strange places with you. And I remembered long, endless, quiet drives through an entire afternoon, and the one which lasted all through the night, and I remembered never wanting to leave your side. And I thought of when you were angry at me or hopeless with me, and I remembered how so far away we were from feeling those things about each other, like we did when we were young. We used to be so young. And I looked at you again as the sun started to make itself known on top of the clouds, your eyes now squinting. And you handed me the keys and said you wanted to sleep some more before we’d get there and asked if I wanted to drive the first hour. I said of course. And then I hugged you, and I looked at you thinking I would have to explain myself for acting so strangely, but before I could pull away you just pulled me in even tighter, and like a child, I cried, but I didn’t have to explain to you why. I knew then that every exit we’d take from here on out would never mean the last thing to cross out on our list, or the end of the trip, but that we were just stopping to fill up.

     I wish that we could’ve been brave from the start. You and me, not afraid of losing each other the way we did, having some kind of blind faith, that my hopelessness with you would always be cured by the familiarity of you, just as coming home after a long day away from home always felt more wonderful than it could feel after a day of never getting out of bed. 
     “Let’s go for a hike,” you said, as you folded the covers over the bed. The room smelled of hotel soap, the tiny white bars of soap wrapped in that pretty paper. That smell always reminded me that we were somewhere unusual and not at home. It was December and we dressed warmly. The sunlight coming in through the window gave the room a better glow. The night before, we had realized that we didn’t book the best place in town. The dim, cheap lamps, the peeling walls, the dusty carpet, the noticeable hum of the air conditioner/heater, there, shaking on the wall. In the morning with the light inside, it was all even more noticeable and lackluster. It didn’t feel so good to be there.
     On those bad days when I had to get away and find a place to feel lost, I thought you knew I would come back, like I always did. You left me all alone at times, too, you know you did. but I knew you had to do what you had to do.
     The day was filled with sights. We drove the couple of miles up to the trails and hiked a cold hike up somewhere near the shore of Center Hill Lake. The trees looked like holograms passing by the car windows. Most everyone else was in for the day because of the cold, or perhaps they were out of town, too. It felt good to be in that open space in the bitter air.
     Being cold with you.
     We were freezing, but the feeling was very much like resting in still water. We didn’t have to speak, like we never have to. There were these smiles, and we would check on each other minute by minute with them. Then we saw a happy older couple treading the opposite way.
     The old man shouted a “good afternoon!” while breathing a little hard. They had huge smiles on their faces. I asked them how the view was from the top, and they told us of it with their eyes glowing. They asked if we were from around here and you told him that we drove out on some impromptu vacation since we had time off for winter. I looked at the little old lady and pretended she was me and that you were him.
     I wondered if I would still want you, after all those years of living. I figured that I could only want you more - your wrinkled eyes and your funny socks and shorts, and how I wished I could jump that far in time just to listen to what the sound of your voice would be like then.
     An hour passed by since our meeting, and we didn’t run into anyone else after that, and already the sun was going down. It got even chillier, and I speculated that we were going to regret it if we kept going. And then we sat there in the dirt and looked at the lake from wherever we were, not sure where that was, but just knowing we weren’t on top. It was still brilliant, and the sun was peeking through the trees to tell us that it was getting late. We sat there much longer than we thought we could, not wanting to admit defeat. It was gold, just to be there alone with you.
     And then there was the drive home. We hadn’t planned on staying out so late but we were so caught up in the scenery that we forgot how difficult it was going to be driving back down the mountainside during the night, on that dimly lighted dirt road, back to our little hotel room. It felt like the longest drive of my life, that I can remember. At the time, just thinking of the drop off turned my legs to jello, and the metal railing with reflectors seemed like no separation at all between you and me and the dark fall. The hotel wasn’t more than a couple miles off from where we were, yet it felt so far in the distance when making the spiraling drive in the dark. With the fog, the headlights could only show us the road ten feet ahead. We were rolling through a sea of road dust and cold winter mist and road reflectors and each sudden turn on that narrow road meant a roll to our deaths. You were the one driving us. We didn’t blink our eyes once. 
     I can still imagine looking on that road from inside your car, inside of night, and I can remember the sort of silence that was in the air even though the car music was playing quietly in the background. I could feel us both breathing carefully. 
     The memory used to haunt me. Whenever I had a long restless night, or whenever I felt anxious, or callous, I was reminded of that long drive and of night’s cruel endlessness. 
     But of course we weren’t going to die. We were going to be just fine. We were as safe as could be. That road had been driven through safely so late at night, many times before. That’s why it was still there. 
     We must have given the road its feeling of danger and death ourselves. It was my fear of heights and my fear of the dark plunge into the unknown. I was terrified of how badly it could hurt me. It was your own misgivings about yourself, not trusting your hands to steer swiftly or your feet to press on the brakes the way you needed to. You did just fine. It was our uneasiness with the darkness that made us feel unsafe, and uncertain about where the road would lead us, even though we had already passed through it before in the daylight without having to feel brave. 
     I thought of how we lost our mind at times. I thought of how we tried our best to look on at each other, bravely, and with kindness, during times of despair, still able to see whatever truth and brilliance lie there, something that is always there and that could never leave, unchanged and still full of love even when there was no light to show us. 
     We knew we’d make it in for the night, but we were scared.

     The memory doesn’t haunt me anymore. It is something that makes me feel the opposite of worrisome. It calms me, when I think back on dark times I spent with you, times when we disappeared on each other, when I didn’t know if you would ever come back, or if I would ever come back. These are our near deaths that no one else could know, or understand, or even believe, except you and me. And a feeling is a feeling. I remember how it felt sitting there next to you in silence, not sure how the night would end, whether we were moving closer and closer to our comfortable bed, or closer to the impact of death.
     I’m always wondering what sort of sensation you’d feel at the exact moment of death, the moment you let go, if it is outstandingly painful, or if it is something that calms you and your broken heart once and for all. Maybe it happens so instantly that when you look up, you’re already far away from it, seeing everything from a distance, from some place still and peaceful, at rest. 


     But most of the time, I don’t think of us dying. I think about some place on the edge of a mountain, inside a little hotel room with the walls peeling and the tan sheets and the cheap, dim lamps (which only gave the room, and you, this perfect color, thanks to the daring and endless journey through the night.) 

I see you and me,
As old as ever,
Safe in a little hotel room,
Lying together at last, 
Happy that we finally made it in for the night,
Even though we always knew we had it in us,
And how night lasted for such a long, long time
And we’ll know that we have been brave together, 
All this time,
All along,
The whole 
Silent 
Drive.

I love your favorite green shirt
That you rush to get through the laundry
So you can wear it on the best days and weekends
Or on our impromptu road trips just to pick up
those famous candy apples and an excuse to drive for hours

I love your green alligator grabber toy
Conveniently chomping on things far away
Things too far to grab with just one’s own arm
Like the remote control or the book on the table
What a silly thing to buy from a ratty old souvenir shop

I love your comfortable green couch
Which I’ve come to know so well
One day I will write you a song about this
and title it “The Green Couch Song”
And it would be about those many times of us

Just sitting there with the TV flickering
And about your green shirt and your comforter
And the green apples with their candy coats
And the green alligator that grabs the keys and the phone
And how the color green makes me feel like home

This is my new blog. I hope to fill it with short stories and poems and photographs and drawings and songs. Thanks for looking, please check up on me.
- adel